


Not With Haste

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, five times fic, in which derek doesn't understand why stiles might want a future with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Stiles asks, and Derek fails to understand. One time he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With Haste

1.

The first time he asks, it is with words, though he doesn't quite know how he gets them out.

Two omegas with authority problems had drifted in from another state and set about trying to make Derek’s life hell, which, Derek being Derek, didn't actually seem to make much of a difference to the alpha wolf. The casual threats, the stalking shadows, the misplaced pack members – he dealt with it all with patience and the occasional sarcastic comment, employing some kind of ‘ignore them and they’ll go away’ mentality. It worked. For a while.

And then they tried to set his house on fire.

Maybe they’d seen the broken and burned shell of a building and figured it would be easy. Maybe they were riding on the hope that it would bring up old wounds for Derek. They had no idea.

Stiles arrives at the property in time to stop Derek from ripping off one of the older one’s limbs with his bare hands. He jumps in front of the oncoming carnage with his hand against Derek’s chest, says “Derek, stop,” so quietly he thinks Derek hasn't heard him until he remembers the wolf hearing. He doesn't know why he is trying to save the omegas; two weeks earlier one of them had cut the brakes on his car. God knows they probably deserved whatever was coming to them now.

But before he can change his mind about saving their pathetic lives, Derek’s red eyes turn on Stiles, and Stiles knows he should be afraid, but he isn't. And then the glow dims and Derek’s shoulders slump.

Stiles turns to tell the omegas to run away and never come back, feeling a little stupidly like a Disney character as he does so. They don’t seem to notice. They leave without a backward glance.

In an instant Derek is on the ground, unaware or uncaring of the can of gasoline that lies on its side, the puddle growing and seeping outwards. He is on the ground, and his head is on his knees, and Stiles thinks he might be sobbing by the way his shoulders are shaking, though there is no noise.

The breeze sneaks in through the open door and keeps the gasoline fumes at bay, though Stiles can’t help but eye the can with suspicion and wish it were somewhere else. Or that they were. But he knows that Derek won’t move, and he knows that Derek probably doesn't want his touch.

So Stiles just slides down the wall next to him, and talks about the future. About a life where Derek’s house has been rebuilt, and Stiles is strong enough to defend himself and his father. About Derek’s pack finally clicking together, enough to defend their territory without effort. About armistice between hunters and werewolves, between werewolves and the people they sometimes called prey. About the two of them, how they can learn each other, not like it is now in faltering steps but easy, effortless. About lazy weekend mornings, where they would wake up to the rays of the sun in peace and quiet, no running or screaming or blood required from the day ahead.

And somewhere during all his words, Derek has stopped shaking, his head slowly rising from its tomb of limbs to watch Stiles. When Stiles runs out of future, Derek leans in and kisses him.

It is slow, sweet, they taste of wood and ash and salt together. When it ends, Stiles just looks at Derek, takes him in, meets his eyes again with a question about that future.

Derek lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes turn from molten to glass.

He shakes his head.

 

2.

It’s March, and Derek has to go undercover, and this requires him to dance, and Stiles is laughing his ass off.

They’re at the Hale house, in Derek’s burnt and broken living room, and the wolf man is just standing there staring at his feet like they've betrayed him. 

“Move, Derek,” Stiles commands, but Derek just makes a noise that might have been a growl if he’d been wolfed out. As a human, it sounds more like a whimper.

“I feel stupid dancing by myself.”

“You want me as a partner?” Oh, the look he gets. “That’s what I thought, big guy.”

Derek’s eyes flick down to Stiles’ feet, as if he actually is considering it for a moment, then back up to his face. “When is Erica getting here?”

Stiles shrugs. “You know what she’s like. But you have me. I am an amazing dancer. I taught Scott so he wouldn't accidentally maim Allison at the prom.” He leans against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, enjoying the scene. To be honest, Stiles isn't sure anyone alive would classify him as an ‘amazing dancer’, what with the jittering and the limbs, but he can’t help wanting to goad, to prod. Derek looks so lost, so helpless, in his formal slacks and a pressed shirt for once. He has barely moved this entire ‘lesson’, just one faltering half step forward, and then a grinding halt.

And yet, Derek is still attempting bravura. "You, dance? I'm pretty sure you'd destroy the house within five seconds." 

Stiles directs a pointed glance at the shell of a room they're currently in. "Yeah, because right now it's a dream home."

For all his offering, Stiles is glad he doesn't actually have to move around too much. He's got a case of badly bruised ribs from being crushed into a wall by some renegade dick alpha the week before, and it's difficult enough to breathe properly, let alone do anything even vaguely on the energetic scale. Derek's aware of this. It's a little bit his fault, after all. Maybe that's why Derek is paying attention to every hitch in Stiles' breath, every wince he lets escape when he shifts position. But Stiles will be damned if that puts a stop to his fun.

As if to prove a point, Stiles manages to get his arms up into a vaguely flamenco-esque position without passing out from pain. "You're missing out, muchacho." He clicks his fingers, and Derek rolls his eyes over-dramatically.

“I'm not dancing alone in front of you, Stiles.” The words are snapped out, Derek's eyebrows raised in Stiles' direction. “And I'm not dancing with you.”

“Never?” Stiles is teasing, drunk on the absurdity of the situation, and he forgets for a second the tension that they've been pretending isn't there.

But of course, Derek hasn't forgotten. And of course, Derek can't just let that one go through to the keeper. He turns to look at Stiles with a heaviness that doesn't belong in this conversation, or at least it didn't until Stiles apparently opened the door for it. In an instant Derek becomes almost wounded in his movements, his eyes weighed down with something that isn't quite sadness and isn't quite anger and might be a little bit of both. Stiles doesn't know what Derek is seeing as those eyes cut into him, never can quite tell. 

Derek is opening his mouth to speak and “Oh God, please don’t,” Stile is saying abruptly, cutting Derek off before he can even start. He turns to press his forehead against the frame of the doorway, wishing for some kind of armour, wondering if he can retreat far enough into himself that he’ll just vanish on the spot. He doesn't want to be reminded of the life he had laid out for Derek, the hope; of the way Derek had turned his offer down. “Please just don’t right now.”

There is silence, and then a door bangs somewhere in the house and Erica must have arrived.

 

3.

It bothers Stiles that he’s sitting amidst white walls and white floors, and there’s some old magazines on the coffee table next to him, while the woman on the chair five feet away has just been told something that is making her weep. The normality of the place belies its purpose.

Stiles has a broken wrist, which has been seen to. He’s waiting, as one does in a hospital waiting room, to be discharged. He can’t take his eyes off the crying woman. Time is moving incredibly slowly, and he wants out, of this room, this building.

And then Derek is just there in front of him all of a sudden. Of course. He does the whole surprise appearance thing spectacularly well.

“You haven’t told your father.” It’s an accusation, clear as daylight.

“Nice to see you too, Derek.” Stiles sighs, leans back in his seat. “He’s been at work since four this morning. I figured it could wait until we both got home.” He shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to think about the way his father’s face is going to look when he sees the cast, or the hospital bill. “I haven’t managed to figure out an excuse yet anyway.”

“It was stupid of you to try and take that trap out on your own.”

By your own, helpless, human self. It's not what Derek says, but Stiles thinks he can hear it behind his words. And it's fair, he supposes. Compared to the wolves, he is weak. It's just that these days he has more important things to care about. “It would have been stupider to have let the pack walk straight into it. Wolfsbane in a sewer, definitely a new one. Do you think this means we have an enemy in the public works office? Because if so that is a little bizarre, and I have no idea how we’re going to find -”

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice is leaden with frustration as he interrupts. He’s standing stiffly, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. “You could have died,” he clips out.

“But I didn't ” Stiles just mutters, staring straight up into eyes that flash red for only a second. He doesn't have the energy left for this; this day and this place have drained it out of him. But as he returns Derek's glare he knows he won't waver, not for a second. It’s not in his being. “You want to protect me all the time, Derek? You want to have a say in what I do? I gave you the chance. You could have taken it.”

Derek doesn't move, just blinks, the anger in his expression growing into something deeper, sadder. “Yes, your perfect future vision for us.” He looks like he wants to sit, perhaps to slump, but he doesn't He just stays upright, tense and focused, though a little bit of the edge is left out of his voice when he speaks again. “You want us playing happy families? Everything will be ok, all the danger will sort itself out, we’ll just run through fields of green laughing in the daylight?”

“The moonlight, you mean.” Stiles is on the receiving end of nothing less than a glower for that. Sometimes he wonders how Derek is still capable of smiling. But he is, Stiles has seen it. Has caused it. Not today though. “Of course not Derek. I don’t think you understand what I'm asking. What I'm offering. ” He’s so tired now.

“Apparently not.”

A nurse is calling out for a Mr. Stilinski, it distracts him momentarily. Only seconds, but Derek is already walking away, ending the conversation before Stiles can elaborate.

And that’s fine. If that’s the way he wants it, then it’s just fine.

 

4.

October. They’re in a basement, cornered by a monster they haven’t even identified. Scott’s upstairs somewhere, and Derek is straining to listen, to hear if he’s alive or not, hunted or hunting. But the God damn room has been soundproofed, and there’s basically no point. Stiles figured that out in the first thirty seconds, though Derek seems determined to obstinately continue listening to nothing.

“Possible death number five hundred and fifty two: devoured in a soundproof basement. Great.”

“Stiles. Be quiet.”

“So that you can hear the monster better?” The look Derek gives him would wither a normal human being, but Stiles has run with the wolves long enough to not be phased. “You are such an asshole.”

“I am?” Derek mutters through gritted teeth, finally giving up on trying to work out what’s going on outside as he turns his attention on Stiles.

“Yeah, you are. Things could have turned out so differently.” Stiles knows now is not the time to be doing this, but he can’t help it. He could be dead in five minutes or less, and he’s angry about things he can't even put words to.

Derek is glaring now. “For you? Or for us?”

“What do you think?”

This elicits a sigh from Derek, who collapses down against the wall so he’s on the ground with Stiles now too, less than a foot away. It could be an ocean for all Stiles cares. It hurts not to be able to place his hand in Derek’s, to bring their foreheads together. To not feel like so much of an other.

“I know,” Derek says finally, and Stiles isn't quite sure he does, until he adds, “ I'm sorry.” He moves slightly, adjusts himself, and now their shoulders are touching. Stiles leans into the contact, feels Derek’s slow, steady breathing, closes his eyes and wonders why he can't have this always. “But we’d still be in this basement, Stiles. Or if not this one, some other. We’d still be fighting for our lives. Nothing can change that.”

And Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, because maybe he’s the one calling Derek names, but this whole mess between them might be a little bit his fault too.

Because what Derek is saying is so fundamentally true, but Stiles already knows that. He doesn't need Derek to tell him, not like Derek thinks he does. He never needed that. 

Then Scott is bursting through the door, covered in some kind of weird green substance, yelling “RUN.”

So they run.

 

5.

The last time he asks, it's in a dell in the woods. The setting sun paints the tree bark gold, and Stiles is on his knees in the dirt, blood running down his cheek.

Some hunters with no respect for the tentative truce the Argents had built had roared into Beacon Hills, gunning for the pack. Apparently that included Stiles.

Whether they had known of his humanity or not before they jumped him on the way to Derek’s, Stiles couldn't be sure. When they figured it out for sure, as he didn't heal beneath their kicks, it apparently hadn't mattered. Unable to fend off their endless assault, he retreated into himself, eyes closed and thoughts far far away. It would work for a few seconds at a time, and then reality would stomp its boot on his kneecap and he’d be wrenched back.

“Where’s the alpha?” one of them had been asking, over and over. “Where is he?”

So desperate to shut out the world, Stiles almost missed the response when it finally came.

“Where’s the God damn alpha?”

“Here.”

The pain stops, and there is noise, and as seconds or minutes or who knows how long drags by Stiles can do nothing but pull himself to his knees with his eyes still closed, wanting but unable to make it to his feet. And then:

“Stiles.”

Eyes open. Derek is watching him in an empty clearing, pain written on his face though he shows no sign of injury. Stiles realises the look is for him, and raises his fingers to gingerly touch his arms, his torso, his jawline. They come away bloody.

His eyes meet Derek’s; they see the concern, the care. See the thousand times Derek has come to rescue Stiles, just as Stiles has tried as many times to even the score. The hurt, the regret, the caution, the sorrow, the everything of Derek, all there in a look as Stiles is on his knees in a patch of earth and leaves and an edge of frost laced on the grass.

They've played this scene before so many times. Its familiarity would be friendly if it weren't for the pain and the dirt that always come along too. In a minute, Stiles will be on his feet, on his way home to shower and self-medicate and find something to cover up with. In a minute, Derek will nod, and turn, and vanish into the tree line to go hunt down whatever survivors there may be.

It all plays out in his mind, an endless line of repetition, and it’s ok, really, it’s fine. It’s been a long time since Stiles accepted the way his life has turned out. But even so. He just…

Stiles looks at Derek, at a loss, and finds it within his capability to offer the tiniest of shrugs.

And in that moment, something shifts in Derek’s gaze, and he thinks maybe Derek finally understands.

The two of them are ridiculous, they’re painful, they’re magnets and gunpowder and landslides. And perhaps it is because of this that they will always keep trying, in the smallest possible ways, to be better.

There will never be a perfect future of peace, of rebuilt houses and safe families, of sunlight and warmth and weekend mornings. Derek knows, Stiles knows.

But then, that has never been what’s on the table.

This time, the word slips out from between his lips before he can stop it.

“Please.”

It is just a whisper.

And it is drowned out by the sound of Derek saying, “yes”.

**Author's Note:**

> This was kind of written as a companion to the Mumford and Sons song 'Not With Haste'. It's been giving me massive Derek/Stiles feels and they had to come out somewhere.


End file.
